The Day After the Night Before
by cactusnell
Summary: In a moment of weakness, or a fit of passion, or maybe just as a matter of curiosity, Sherlock and Molly take their relationship to another level. What happens now? Sherlolly
Molly Hooper was floating in that comfortable zone of semi-consciousness somewhere between being awake and asleep. She was quite used to awakening slowly, her internal clock gently guiding her into her workaday world. But, _something was off here_ , she thought. This wasn't her bed, her pile of pillows. These pillows were fluffier, the sheets were softer, the comforter more comforting. It felt so right, and so wrong, at precisely the same time. As her mind slowly rose from the depths of her dreams to the reality of her existence, she was having a more difficult time, she found, letting go of the dreams. And for good reason, as they, even more dramatically than usual, centered around Sherlock Holmes, certified genius and all-around git. He of the dark curls and the magical eyes. The toned chest and the great bum. The discretely muscled thighs, the wonderfully corded arms, and the… _Good lord_ , she thought, _where is this all coming from?_ Molly roused herself before her thoughts could drift to any more significant body parts.

But, when she opened her eyes, she found no escape from her musings. She was in Sherlock's room, in his bed, to be absolutely precise, and, if the feel of the soft, cool sheets was any indication, completely naked. It would appear that her dream life and her real life had collided in a night of passion, and now she had to prepare herself for the inevitable disappointment to come. She could hear Sherlock puttering about in the kitchen, then the sitting room. Then, suddenly, the bedroom door opened, and the man himself appeared, already wearing his Belstaff, and seemingly in quite a hurry.

"Good morning, Molly. Have to leave. Lestrade called. Could be a seven or even an eight! I'll probably see you at Bart's later." And, with that, and nothing else, the door closed and he was gone.

Molly should have known that it was a bad idea. Oh, who the bloody hell was she kidding, she did know it was a bad idea. A terrible idea, in fact. Living with the unrequited love of your life was a guaranteed path to heartbreak and unhappiness. But her path seemed to have taken a bit of a detour here, leading to a night she would always remember, even if it would be wiser to forget.

The pathologist had been living with the consulting detective for just over two months. She couldn't believe it when he had asked her to move in, explaining, quite unexpectedly, that he missed having a flatmate, someone to fill the empty spaces in his flat, and his life. The economic benefits were undeniable, as well as the logistics. She would be in a better neighborhood, closer to work, and reduced rent. Mrs. Hudson had urged her to come onboard, saying she would love to have another woman on the premises. Greg Lestrade had remarked how much of a calming influence she had on the volatile man, and Mycroft Holmes had offered her a substantial stipend, which she turned down, of course, to act as her brother's "nanny". Catching a glimpse of her naked body as she rose from the bed to head into the bathroom, Molly thought that Mary Poppins would never approve of this! She couldn't let go of the whole Mary Poppins, nanny, scenario, as she surveyed her image in the bathroom mirror. Imagine good old Mary P. looking, or feeling, this debauched. There were red marks all down her neck, and across her shoulders. Some were fading already, but other were destined to last for a while. There were other marks on her breasts, hips, and thigh, and she felt a delicious ache in her "lady parts", as her mother discretely called them. If she were a "nanny", it evidently was in some porno version of the classic children's tale, and when Sherlock Holmes finally explained that it was a simple one-off, a way to satisfy his curiosity or scratch an itch, she knew, no matter how adult she would try to be about it, that no amount of sugar would make that medicine go down any easier. With a heavy sigh, she stepped into a soothing shower, thinking about the previous evening.

It had started off normally enough. The pathologist and the prat had shared a takeaway meal from the Chinese restaurant around the corner, and settled in comfortably for a night of telly. But this hadn't worked out all that well, as Molly simply loved to watch celebrity gossip shows as a welcome relief after a day of carving up corpses, and Sherlock seemed to take personal offense at some of the latest escapades of celebrities in general, and Kardashians in particular. He seemed to object, on a personal basis, to Molly's fangirling about the latest addition to the Marvel universe, Dr. Strange. Benjamin Bumpercatch, or something. It seems as if the production crew had attracted quite a bit of attention as they filmed around London, and when Molly expressed a desire to join all the other fangirls currently swooning over Mr. Actor-man, Sherlock was quick to point out the total inanity of the situation.

"Do these women really believe that they will be able to engage in some kind of personal encounter, or build a relationship, with this man simply because they are on the same street, screaming his name between takes, Molly? What's so special about him, anyway? He looks ridiculous in the flowing cape!"

"Says the man with the flowing coat!" Molly laughed in response.

"My coat is perfectly normal attire, as you well know…"

"And you flip up the collar just to look cool! Just like Dr. Strange." Molly was still giggling a bit. "And how could you not think the man is attractive, Sherlock. He looks quite a bit like you, you know. Nice eyes, great hair. Cheekbones to die for!" She displayed a picture on her mobile to show him.

"I don't see the resemblance."

"Liar!"

"Alright! Perhaps he's a distant cousin. I come from quite a large gene pool, you know."

"Numerically speaking, we all do. It's quality that counts, not quantity, when it comes to gene pools."

"So, extrapolating from your comments, Dr. Hooper, may I assume that, finding this Crumblesnitch character as attractive as you do, and with your assertion that we resemble each other so closely, that you find me attractive?"

"Stop fishing for compliments, Sherlock. You know you're hot." 

"Looks mean very little. Just a fortunate combination of random genes, after all. But, I'm happy that you think my particular combination is aesthetically pleasing, Molly. And, I must say, I find your particular genome attractive, as well." The detective was smiling in a peculiar manner.

Molly thought that this was the most atypically seductive thing that she had ever heard, and was beginning to feel a bit overheated as she realized just how close they were sitting on the couch. The heat did not dissipate a bit as he leaned even closer to say, "Perhaps we should do our own little experiment in gene sharing, Dr. Hooper." Having said that, the genetically gifted detective moved even closer, wrapped his arms around the small woman to pull her into him, and proceeded to nibble her ear. She would have been embarrassed by the small "eeek!" that escaped her lips had she not realized that it had, most likely, been drowned out by the deep groan issuing from her partner.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly?"

"I thought you weren't interested in this sort of thing," she said breathily as his lips worked their way down her neck and across her shoulder.

"Just because I haven't indulged in quite some time doesn't mean that I no longer feel certain urges, Dr. Hooper. As a physician, you should be well aware that such urges are part and parcel of our biological condition."

Molly was finding coherent thought becoming more and more difficult as a hand reached up to tangle itself in her hair. "Some biologists espouse the 'use it or lose it' theory, Sherlock. That is to say, if we neglect to engage in certain activities, we will eventually lose the ability to do so. If we don't use our legs, at all, our muscles will atrophy and we will lose the ability to walk. Our hearts may be weakened by lack of cardiovascular exercise. Our brain cells may cease to function if we don't challenge them. So…"

"Dr. Hooper, I certainly don't want to 'lose' anything, so, if you have no objections, I will continue with this exercise." That being said, he leaned back on the arm of the couch, bring his pathologist with him, and proceeded to snog her senseless. She soon gave up any pretension of objecting to the situation, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders, delighting in the fact that she could actually touch the man, that he not only allowed it, but welcomed it. She thought of the many times she had seen him flinch at the touch of another, or wince. He wasn't a touchy-feely kind of person, but he wasn't flinching or wincing now! And she was reveling in the fact that his hands were exploring her body, as well. When his shirt became untucked due to their contortions, she took the opportunity to move her hand over the bare skin of his back. She knew that she had long ago passed the point of no return, but tried to recover her dignity just a bit by saying, "I have a early day tomorrow, Sherlock. I think it's just about my bedtime."

"I agree wholeheartedly!" he said, struggling clumsily to his feet, if the man could be said to do anything clumsily. He reached out his hand for her, smiling boyishly, and said, "Shall we?"

Somewhere in Molly's head, a small voice, the voice of reason, was saying, "Too much, too soon." But another voice, possibly that of her heart egged on by her libido, was shouting it down. "Not enough! And how can eight years be too soon?" The voices were still arguing as she took his hand and allowed him to lead her into his bedroom, where reason finally surrendered to the inevitable.

And so, here she was, the following day, living in a bubble of hope and despair. Had they ruined their relationship, entirely? Would she be able to live without the man now that she know what having him was like? Would he ever look at her the same, or did he now consider her just another experiment completed? She would find out soon enough, she thought, as the man himself burst through the doors of the lab, John Watson following closely behind.

"Molly, have you finished the report on the two bodies Lestrade sent you early this morning? Mr. and Mrs. Hunley?"

"I have. The final reports are on-line, you can look at them now, if you like," the pathologist said,trying to remain professional. "They're rather, uh, interesting."

"Lestrade thinks it was a murder/suicide situation. I'm leaning toward mutual homicide. Only one loose end to tie up."

"Your theory, Sherlock?" Molly asked innocently, as John rolled his eyes at what he considered the ridiculousness of the situation.

"The husband has defensive wounds on his hands, indicating a struggle. The wife has a single mortal knife wound, no defensive wounds, indicating an unexpected, lethal attack. My theory is that the wife, Mrs. Hunley, for some reason, saw fit to perform a penectomy on her husband, but he, quite naturally," here Sherlock winced and John crossed his legs, "attempted to dissuade her, thus receiving the injuries to his hands. Blood on the bed indicates that the initial attack occurred in the bedroom, perhaps while Mrs. Hunley thought her husband was sleeping. He fought her off, unsuccessfully, it would seem. After removing the offending organ, she then left him, probably assuming he would quickly expire due to shock and blood loss. But there was a trail of blood leading from the bedroom to the kitchen, where phase two took place. My assumption is that Mr. Hunley, justly enraged by the removal of his manhood, and believing that he would never live to see justice done, struggled into the kitchen, picked up a convenient knife, and plunged it into his wife's back, piercing her heart. Surprisingly, he then sat on the floor next to her, cradled her head in his bloody lap, and died. The only loose end is the location of the penis. It has yet to be located. Police technicians are currently taking apart the garbage disposal." John Watson let out an audible groan. "Ah, toujours l'amour."

"You should have checked her pocket, Sherlock."

"Pocket, Molly?"

"Yes, her pocket. The pocket in her dressing gown. That's where I found it, so you can reassemble the garbage disposal. It looks like she had washed it, and wrapped it in a clean hankie."

"I suppose it could have been worse," the detective said.

"Just how could this whole thing have been worse, you git?" John asked in a rather testy tone.

"Well, she could have microwaved it, and served it up with some mashed potatoes. A new take on bangers and mash, perhaps."

Molly broke into gales of laughter, appreciating the double entendre of the word "bangers".

But the detective was not finished. Looking at the pathologist with a telling grin, he said, "Perhaps he didn't use it enough, as he certainly lost it, so to speak."

"Given the circumstances, it is far more likely he used it a bit too much, but in the wrong places!" Molly answered with a wicked gleam.

"I shall be sure to bear that in mind in the future, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock glanced over at John, who seemed to be recovering a bit. "Well, case solved. All body parts accounted for. I was hoping for a seven, at least. Turns out barely a four. Early home, tonight, then. Are you cooking, Molly, or should I pick something up?"

"I'll be home early enough to cook, Sherlock. Chicken alright with you?"

"Fine," he replied. Then, to John's surprise, he leaned in to give the woman a brief kiss on the cheek. "See you at home, then."

Molly smiled at his retreating back as he and John left the way they had come in. Their first meeting since their wild night together had gone well. She could only hope that the evening ahead would go as well.

As soon as they had left the lab, John turned to his friend to ask, "What was that, Sherlock?"

"To what do you refer, John?"

"That whole 'I'll be home early', 'are you cooking', thing. Not to mention the kiss on the cheek."

"Molly is a dear friend. We share living quarters. I was being considerate, trying to show my appreciation."

"In all the time we lived together you never once showed any appreciation. Or kissed me on the cheek!"

"I didn't realize you wanted me to, John. Have you discussed this side of your personality with Mary? I'd be more than happy to kiss your cheek on occasion, if Mary has no objection. Shall I ask her?"

"Oh, drop it, you prat!" the smaller man muttered as he lengthened the space between him and his friend.

When she arrived home Molly immediately started on the dinner preparations. She had invited Mrs. Hudson to join them, as the woman seemed a bit worn out from caring for a sickly neighbor. The older woman deserved a meal she didn't have to prepare herself. Molly made quick work of preparing the chicken cacciatore, and opening a bottle of red wine to accompany the meal. If Sherlock looked a bit put out by the inclusion of a third party, he hid it well, and the three friends passed an enjoyable evening together. Mrs. Hudson greatly enjoyed the story of the missing penis, showing immediately where her sympathies lie by referring to the amateur surgeon as "that poor lass." She also pointed out that Mr. Hunley would not need a penis where he was going.

"He's going into the ground or into the fire," Sherlock observed, "so, you are correct, Mrs. H. He will not need his penis."

"Into the fire, one way or another, I reckon," the older woman said with a laugh. "And I suppose the poor lass will wind up there with him."

"The 'poor lass', as you insist on calling her, cut off her husband's penis, and left him to die. So, yes, I assume their paths will cross in the hereafter, if such a place exists." Then, disinterested in further conversation, he left the women to do some research on his laptop. Mrs. Hudson helped with the clean-up, then headed downstairs. The hour was getting late, and the detective was still hard at work, oblivious to the rather nervous woman sitting in "John's" chair and staring intently at the back of his head. She finally rose, went down the hall to the bathroom, and returned to stand next to the detective as he sat at his desk.

"It's getting late, Sherlock. I think I'll head off to bed. Okay?"

"Me too. I'm just finishing up with this."

"Well, good night." Molly said casually, then made her way to the front door.

Sherlock was on his feet in a flash, reaching for her hand and pulling her back. "Where the bloody hell are you going? I thought we settled this last night!"

"Settled what? We never talked about anything! All we did was...well, you know what we did."

"I thought you enjoyed it."

"I did! But I understand that you don't do this kind of thing…"

"I thought I proved last night that I do, indeed, do this kind of thing. And, given the opportunity would like to continue to do this kind of thing. With you. So, why take that long trip upstairs when there's a perfectly good bed just a short way down the hall. Fluffy pillows, soft sheets, and a hard man. A 'hot' man, I believe you called me"

Molly could not think of a single argument against this onslaught of logic, so she meekly followed him down the short hallway, where he wasted no time in picking up where he had left off the previous evening. But Molly would not allow herself to be seduced so easily this time. She was determined to get him to talk, despite the fact that she knew how difficult he found it to discuss sentiment, commitment, or anything involving the unscientific. Perhaps she should start with some practicalities.

"Sherlock, is this going to be a regular thing?" she managed to get out, despite the fact that he was currently working on unfastening her bra.

"Yes. Very regular."

"How regular?"

"I rather expected that you would move in here. I seem to sleep better when you're here. I felt very well rested this morning. You're always complaining that I need to eat and sleep more regularly. So, here's how you can help me sleep. You're a doctor, Molly. Consider taking your bedside manner just a bit further."

Molly struggled to get the next sentence out, as Sherlock had finished with her bra and was now working on her knickers. "Sherlock, what about the upstairs room, then. We do pay extra rent for it, you know."

"We'll keep it, of course. For now it can be a guest room. Mycroft is always complaining about having to put up Mummy and Papa when they come to town. Mummy will enjoy spending time with you, and she and Mrs. Hudson get along famously. They're old friends, after all." Ceasing his attempt to undress her, at least for the moment, he looked down at her, their eyes drinking in each other, as he said, "I imagine we will need it for a nursery, eventually."

And that was it. They weren't the exact words that Molly wanted to hear, but they were certainly more than enough to assure her that this was, in fact, not a one-off arrangement. He was smiling now, a bit nervously, even shyly. "What's the matter? Concerned about what kind of a father I'd be?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, I am. But with you as a mother, how screwed up can the kid be?"

"Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

"Of course I am. Never doubt that, Molly. Not for one minute." And when he kissed her, any doubts that the pathologist may have had disappeared completely. "Are you happy, Molly?" he asked quietly.

"I love you, you impossible man. I think I always have, and I know I always will. And I'm very happy!"

"Good. That's all I really want to do from now on. Make you happy, and keep you happy. And, while I appreciate your declaration of love, I am a man who believes that actions speak even louder than words, so…"

For the rest of the night, and with a promise of decades ahead of them, Sherlock Holmes let his actions prove just how much he loved this remarkable woman. His current and future love, his pathologist, his future wife, his life, his Molly.


End file.
